UC-NRLF 


JACKSON  (H-H-) 


x// 


Calendar  of 


A"  CALENDAR 

-or 


BY 
H€L€N  "JACKSO 


•BOSTON: 
•BROTHERS  -  Pu»- 

'USH6BS 


Copyright,  1SSC, 
BY  ROBERTS  BRUTHKRS. 


Hmtorrsttg  £)rrss: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


C3 


1 

HA  I'M 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

The  full-page  Designs By  EMILE  BAYARD. 

The  Vignettes  to  the  Text By  E.  H.  GARRETT. 

Engraving  by  JOHN  ANDREW  &  SON  Co. 


M667926 


JANUARY. 


O  WINTER !   frozen  pulse  and  heart  of  lire, 
What  loss  is  theirs  who  from  thy  kingdom  turn 
Dismayed,  and  think  thy  snow  a  sculptured  urn 
Of  death !     Far  sooner  in  midsummer  tire 
The  streams  than  under  ice.    June  could  not  hire 
Her  roses  to  forego  the  strength  they  learn 
In  sleeping  on  thy  breast.     No  tires  can  burn 
The  bridges  thou  dost  lay  where  men  desire 
In  vain  to  build. 

O  Heart,  when  Love's  sun  goes 
To  northward,  and  the  sounds  of  singing  cease, 
Keep  warm  by  inner  tires,  and  rest  in  peace. 
Sleep  on  content,  as  sleeps  the  patient  rose. 
Walk  boldly  on  the  white  untrodden  snows, 
The  winter  is  the  winter's  own  release. 


FEBRUARY. 


STILL  lie  the  sheltering  snows,  undimmed  and  white 
And  reigns  the  winter's  pregnant  silence  still; 
No  sign  of  spring,  save  that  the  catkins  till, 
And  willow  stems  grow  daily  red  and  bright. 
These  are  the  days  when  ancients  held  a  rite 
Of  expiation  for  the  old  year's  ill, 
And  prayer  to  purify  the  new  year's  will : 
Fit  days,  ere  yet  the  spring  rains  blur  the  sight, 
Ere  yet  the  bounding  blood  grows  hot  with  haste, 
And  dreaming  thoughts  grow  heavy  with  a  greed 
The  ardent  summer's  joy  to  have  and  taste; 
Fit  days,  to  give  to  last  year's  losses  heed, 
To  reckon  clear  the  new  life's  sterner  need; 
Fit  days,  for  Feast  of  Expiation  placed! 


MARCH. 


MONTH  which  the  warring-  ancients  strangely  styled 
The  month  of  war,  —  as  if  in  their  tierce  ways 
Were  any  month  of  peace!  —  in  thy  rough  days 
1  find  no  war  in  Nature,  though  the  wild 
Winds  clash  and  clang,  and  broken  boughs  are  piled 
At  feet  of  writhing  trees.     The  violets  raise 
Their  heads  without  affright,  without  amaze, 
And  sleep  through  all  the  din,  as  sleeps  a  child. 
And  he  who  watches  well  may  well  discern 
Sweet  expectation  in  each  living  thing. 
Like  pregnant  mother  the  sweet  earth  doth  yearn ; 
In  secret  joy  makes  ready  for  the  spring; 
And  hidden,  sacred,  in  her  breast  doth  bear 
Annunciation  lilies  for  the  year. 


APRIL. 


"At  l\i  L . 


NO  days  such  honored  days  as  these !     When  yet 
Fair  Aphrodite  reigned,  men  seeking  wide 
For  some  fair  thing  which  should  forever  bide 
On  earth,  her  beauteous  memory  to  set 
In  fitting  frame  that  no  age  could  forget, 
Her  name  in  lovely  April's  name  did  hide, 
And  leave  it  there,  eternally  allied 
To  all  the  fairest  flowers  Spring  did  beget. 
And  when  fair  Aphrodite  passed  from  earth, 
Her  shrines  forgotten  and  her  feasts  of  mirth, 
A  holier  symbol  still  in  seal  and  sign, 
Sweet  April  took,  of  kingdom  most  divine, 
When  Christ  ascended,  in  the  time  of  birth 
Of  spring  anemones,  in  Palestine. 


' 


MAY. 


O  MONTH  when  they  who  love  must  love  and  wed ! 
Were  one  to  go  to  worlds  where  May  is  naught, 
And  seek  to  tell  the  memories  he  had  brought 
From  earth  of  thee,  what  were  most  fitly  said  ? 
1  know  not  if  the  rosy  showers  shed 
From  apple -boughs,  or  if  the  soft  green  wrought 
In  fields,  or  if  the  robin's  call  be  fraught 
The  most  with  thy  delight.     Perhaps  they  read 
Thee  best  who  in  the  ancient  time  did  say 
Thou  wert  the  sacred  month  unto  the  old : 
No  blossom  blooms  upon  thy  brightest  day 
So  subtly  sweet  as  memories  which  unfold 
In  aged  hearts  which  in  thy  sunshine  lie, 
To  sun  themselves  once  more  before  they  die. 


•-.•••• 


JUNE. 


O  MONTH  whose  promise  and  fulfilment  blend, 
And  burst  in  one !    it  seems  the  earth  can  store 
In  all  her  roomy  house  no  treasure  more; 
Of  all  her  wealth  no  farthing'  have  to  spend 
On  fruit,  when  once  this  stintless  flowering-  end. 
And  yet  no  tiniest  flower  shall  fall  before 
It  hath  made  ready  at  its  hidden  core 
Its  tithe  of  seed,  which  we  may  count  and  tend 
Till  harvest.     Joy  of  blossomed  love,  for  thee 
Seems  it  no  fairer  thing  can  yet  have  birth  ? 
No  room  is  left  for  deeper  ecstasy  ? 
Watch  well  if  seeds  grow  strong,  to  scatter  free 
Germs  for  thy  future  summers  on  the  earth. 
A  joy  which  is  but  joy  soon  comes  to  dearth. 


ram 


JULY. 


SOME  flowers  are  withered  and  some  joys  have  died 
The  garden  reeks  with  an  East  Indian  scent 
From  beds  where  gillyflowers  stand  weak  and  spent; 
The  white  heat  pales  the  skies  from  side  to  side; 
But  in  still  lakes  and  rivers,  cool,  content, 
Like  starry  blooms  on  a  new  firmament, 
White  lilies  float  and  regally  abide. 
In  vain  the  cruel  skies  their  hot  rays  shed ; 
The  lily  does  not  feel  their  brazen  glare. 
In  vain  the  pallid  clouds  refuse  to  share 
Their  dews;  the  lily  feels  no  thirst,  no  dread. 
Unharmed  she  lifts  her  queenly  face  and  head; 
She  drinks  of  living  waters  and  keeps  fair. 


i, 


AUGUST. 


AUGUST.' 


SILENCE  again.     The  glorious  symphony 
Hath  need  of  pause  and  interval  of  peace. 
Some  subtle  signal  bids  all  sweet  sounds  cease, 
Save  hum  of  insects'  aimless  industry. 
Pathetic  summer  seeks  by  blazonry 
Of  color  to  conceal  her  swift  decrease. 
Weak  subterfuge !     Each  mocking  day  doth  fleece 
A  blossom,  and  lay  bare  her  poverty. 
Poor  middle -aged  summer !     Vain  this  show  ! 
Whole  fields  of  golden -rod  cannot  offset 
One  meadow  with  a  single  violet ; 
And  well  the  singing  thrush  and  lily  know, 
Spite  of  all  artifice  which  her  regret 
Can  deck  in  splendid  guise,  their  time  to  go! 


SEPTEMBER. 


O  GOLDEN  month  !     How  high  thy  gold  is  heaped  ! 
The  yellow  birch-leaves  shine  like  bright  coins  strung 
On  wands;  the  chestnut's  yellow  pennons  tongue 
To  every  wind  its  harvest  challenge.     Steeped 
In  yellow,  still  lie  fields  where  wheat  was  reaped; 
And  yellow  still  the  corn  sheaves,  stacked  among 
The  yellow  gourds,  which  from  the  earth  have  wrung 
Her  utmost  gold.     To  highest  boughs  have  leaped 
The  purple  grape,  — last  thing  to  ripen,  late 
By  very  reason  of  its  precious  cost. 
O  Heart,  remember,  vintages  are  lost 
If  grapes  do  not  for  freezing  night-dews  wait. 
Think,  while  thou  sunnest  thyself  in  Joy's  estate, 
Mayhap  thou  canst  not  ripen  without  frost! 


5 


OCTOBER. 


THE  month  of  carnival  of  all  the  year, 
When  Nature  lets  the  wild  earth  go  its  way 
And  spend  whole  seasons  on  a  single  day. 
The  spring-time  holds  her  white  and  purple  dear; 
October,  lavish,  flaunts  them  far  and  near ; 
The  summer  charily  her  reds  doth  lay 
Like  jewels  on  her  costliest  array; 
October,  scornful,  burns  them  on  a  bier. 
The  winter  hoards  his  pearls  of  frost  in  sign 
Of  kingdom :  whiter  pearls  than  winter  knew, 
Or  Empress  wore,  in  Egypt's  ancient  line, 
October,  feasting  'neath  her  dome  of  blue, 
Drinks  at  a  single  draught,  slow  filtered  through 
Sunshiny  air,  as  in  a  tingling  wine! 


*•'.  • 


NOVEMBER. 


THIS  is  the  treacherous  month  when  autumn  days 
With  summer's  voice  come  bearing'  summer's  gifts. 
Beguiled,  the  pale  down-trodden  aster  lifts 
Her  head  and  blooms  again.     The  soft,  warm  haze 
Makes  moist  once  more  the  sere  and  dusty  ways, 
And,  creeping  through  where  dead  leaves  lie  in  drifts, 
The  violet  returns.     Snow  noiseless  sifts 
Ere  night,  an  icy  shroud,  which  morning's  rays 
Will  idly  shine  upon  and  slowly  melt, 
Too  late  to  bid  the  violet  live  again. 
The  treachery,  at  last,  too  late,  is  plain ; 
Bare  are  the  places  where  the  sweet  flowers  dwelt. 
What  joy  sufficient  hath  November  felt? 
What  profit  from  the  violet's  day  of  pain? 


I  j 


....    • . 


DECEMBER. 


DECEMU 


E  lakes  of  ice  gleam  bluer  than  the  lakes 
1      Of  water  'neath  the  summer  sunshine  gleamed 
Far  fairer  than  when  placidly  it  streamed, 
The  brook  its  frozen  architecture  makes, 
And  under  bridges  white  its  swift  way  takes. 
Snow  comes  and  goes  as  messenger  who  dreamed 
Might  linger  on  the  road ;  or  one  who  deemed 
His  message  hostile  gently  for  their  sakes 
Who  listened  might  reveal  it  by  degrees. 
We  gird  against  the  cold  of  winter  wind 
Our  loins  now  with  mighty  bands  of  sleep, 
In  longest,  darkest  nights  take  rest  and  ease, 
And  every  shortening  day,  as  shadows  creep 
O'er  the  brief  noontide,  fresh  surprises  find. 


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